


come the old acid

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Kink, Facials, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: you’re not supposed to be so mesmerized by him.he’s twice your age, maybe plus half of it, but you don’t know. you think he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes on, and you’ve shamelessly gotten off with his name on your lips.





	

**Author's Note:**

> jeez louise. 
> 
> purposeful lowercase, btw. bc i'm an edgelord, even when it comes to porn. 
> 
> this was written for my friend. um. idk. 
> 
>  
> 
> [hmu on tumblr. i take requests.](http://luciferslittlekitten.tumblr.com/)

you’re not supposed to be so mesmerized by him.

he’s twice your age, maybe plus half of it, but you don’t know. you think he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever laid your eyes on, and you’ve shamelessly gotten off with his name on your lips, stretched around and biting down on your knuckles in case your sister heard you in your more intimate of moments when she’s not really supposed to be home, but wherein you get paranoid anyways.

he works downtown in a repair shop and part of you, the reasonable part, rationalizes he’s kind of a loser. he’s got a son (even his son is older than you, dear christ), and he’s almost uncomfortably forward with you. you don’t get uncomfortable, of course, because whenever he leans too close for comfort you want him to shove your face against the brick wall, leave the garage door hanging half-way open, and fuck you loud enough for the entirety of the street to hear. you want him to do all sorts of nasty things to you, so you don’t mind when he moves so close you almost start cracking under the pressure of not letting your vision dip anywhere below his eyes.

you have just gotten a car and you know nothing about cars (you know everything about cars, jade is enamoured with them and never shuts up about them), but you drive by and ask him for help with every little chink in the black mercedes-benz armour. you give him wide-eyed looks and nod as he explains every intimate detail of how it works and why it does that and you like coming when it’s very hot outside, when it’s reaching upwards of one-hundred and ten and the sidewalk is melting the soles off your sneakers, because sometimes he’ll be working with his shirt off and it enables you to imagine running your fingers over his chest and _god_ you bet it’s rock-hard and you wonder how no one else is as captivated by him as you are because he’s gorgeous and you’re infatuated to a point you wonder if you’re even stable.

his name features itself doodled in your notebooks, the margins of your textbooks, and your handwriting isn’t the prettiest but you feel some type of way when your pens scratch out his name. you wonder if you’re being silly and juvenile. you wonder if you’re too immature for him to be into you. you wonder if he’s ever considered bending you over the wooden top table in his office with the metal legs that would heat up when it got too hot and you would burn your knees on it, like the buckles in a hot car. you wonder if he’s ever considered shoving you down and forcing you to swallow every inch of his cock like the good little boy you want to be for him because, fuck, you’d be so good.

your over-active imagination works up many ways you could wrap your fingers around his dick and let him cum all over you face, but you know you could never go through with them without fumbling or looking stupid. you’ve already fucked nearly every name in the phone book. you wonder how far your reputation travels.

you don’t really know if he’d care, really. mr. strider is different. you think. he’s like your spanish teacher in the way that he doesn’t just feel like a boy who messily grapples at your hair as you suck their dick in the handicapped stall in the bathroom because they know you’ve done it to many, many others. and then they’ll still end up calling you names anyways. you know actual men wouldn’t do that, the ones you want to surround yourself with. mr. strider feels like an actual force, someone that can actually control you.

you don’t like being in power, even though you know, being self-proclaimed jailbait and all, it kind of comes with the package.

you know that if you wanted to, you could easily bring yourself to tears on live television and tell the police about your spanish teacher who touches you. your mama will act like she cares to keep up appearances. honestly, she’d probably eat up the drama and publicity, not quite caring about your ‘trauma’ or whatever bullshit buzzwords you could pull from your ass.

the public lens is more on your little siblings right now, john and jade, because they are class-a poster children and as pretty as porcelain dolls. that’s what your mama says anyways. you’ll get called out for an occasional commercial, but you aren’t inheriting the company like your older sister and you’re not endorsing it anymore like your younger ones. you’re stuck somewhere in the middle, with too many daddy issues and, honestly, too many dicks in your mouth.

the day you come in next it is one hundred and seven degrees and it is very hot. you’re wearing your little short shorts because it’s a saturday and you had no dress code to hold you back, no judgement from your peers. you let yourself into the garage and he’s working and he’s got his shirt off and you just about have a seizure, trying not to focus on that and instead on schooling your into the most innocent, kindly expression you can and jutting your hip out to the side a little. you clear your throat but he’s already noticed you and he turns away from his bench and raises an eyebrow at you behind the shades.

“it’s still not running, just barely hobbling, the darned thing,” you complain because this is your go-to excuse, you’ll throw a couple metaphorical wrenches in your car here and there so he can fix it (it’s always an easy fix, always always) and then you’ll giggle mindlessly and tell him, _gosh, you know, i don’t know why i can’t figure all this poppycock out!_

you wonder if he can see through your bullshit. you wonder if he knows you’re not actually the dumbass you want him to think you are. maybe the stupider you are, the more desirable you are, because that’s how it’s always worked in the past. you are not dumb. you know when the oil needs to be changed. but he doesn’t know that you know that.

part of you wants to fish for an excuse to bend over, crowd nearer him when he’s looking at your car, say something to him. but all you do it tease him. if he wants to throw out a line for a piece of jailbait, then you’ll bite.

he sighs. “dollface, when is your car ever running right?”

you pout a little, as if the nicknames annoys you. in reality, you adore it. “it’s not my bloody fault,” you murmur out, sounding for all hell like the rich brat he thinks you are, “it’s like the weather. it just does what it frickin’ wants to.”

“magically?”

you shrug. “oh, perhaps. but i know you know how to tighten it up, mr. strider.”

“how high are the expenses you rack up on daddy’s credit card just by bringing that thing out here?”

you giggle. it’s not uncharacteristic of you, but god does it sound brainless. “why, don’t you like it when i come down to visit?”

you know it’s easy bait, you know it’s cheap, but you can afford to make the low shots when you’re pretending to be as air-headed as you come off. he snorts. “‘course i love it when you come around, babydoll, but that don’t mean i can’t feel bad for your old man.”

“my old woman,” you correct him, “i don’t have a ‘daddy,’ you’d be kind to know. you’d be answering to my mama.”

“your mama?” he repeats, “where’d daddy dearest go?”

he shrugged. “i dunno. gosh, you expect me to keep up with the bastard?”

“so you were raised by a single mom? i guess i shoulda figured, yeah? it shows.”

he doesn’t get sarcasm or anything snippy for saying that to you. he has the right, you guess because he’s older and you get the satisfaction of him looking you over. you know you are the epitome of daddy issues. you know you are the poster child of what happens to boys with absentee fathers. they become desperate for attention and obsessed with fulfilling some unset standard of worth. sometimes, fitting that role to a t almost makes you disgusted with yourself. but you’re already easier than the abcs and you suppose there isn’t a point in regaining dignity now, not when every boy is invited to step right up and take you for a goddamn whirl.

“i suppose so,” you say with a smile, trying your best to not sound the least bit bitter, swaying a little on your feet, “is it quite so obvious?”

he laughs. “is it obvious? kiddo, it with how… y’know, like that, you are…”

“like what?” you ask him and you pull your shorts up higher on your hips by the belt loops.

“ah, forget it,” he says hurriedly.

you suppose that could be a sensitive topic for him to tread. you feel your heart pounding against your ribcage as you take a step forward and ask him, again, “like what, mr. strider?”

he stares at you for a while. you’re not exactly a respectable distance away from him, closing in past a foot between the two of you and your eyes haven’t left his and he swallows very pointedly, almost as if that alone will close the conversation, but you only move closer to him and it’s now or never, if you pussy out now, you’ll never get another shot.

he grabs your wrist, stops you short. “kiddo, knock it off.”

you pout, drawing your eyebrows together. “you’re no fun,” you tell him, tugging your wrist away, but he does not let go and you stop struggling with a huff, “i thought you said you appreciated company, mr. strider. i’m just trying to enjoy myself.”

“you tease all the guys like this?”

“pardon?”

“is this fun to you, getting middle-aged men all bothered. do you enjoy showing yourself off like that? parading about like a fucking slut, i swear to god, i…”

“you think i’m a slut?” you ask in the sweetest voice you can muster.

“you gonna tell me you ain’t?”

you say nothing. he lets go of your wrist. “s’what i thought.”

in wind-breaking time,  a move you halfway don’t expect, he spins you around to push you up against his work desk and you have no issue with this except that you almost trip and fall onto the concrete. it’s still so hot outside. his body pressed flush against yours is doing nothing to alleviate the heat or the sweat running down the nape of your neck. your legs are backed up again the wooden desk and his hands are on either side of you and you never realized that they are much bigger, much, much bigger, than yours. he almost looks angry. the garage door is closed and the shitty fans are working their hardest to cool the both of you down but you doubt that will happen.

“you think,” he starts, lowly, “you think you can just come in here every day acting like that?”

your arms snake up and around his neck, unbalancing him enough for you to pull yourself up to sit on the desk. you tug him closer to you, “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“bullshit you don’t,” he leans in threateningly close and the desk shakes just a little beneath you. his voice borders on a growl and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, “you come in here dressing like a little slut just asking to get fucked.”

“i would never ask that of you, mr. strider,” you whisper to him in such an innocent tone it seems to infuriate him even more, “i only come in because you’re real nice to me all the time,” your words trail off in a murmurs, you cock your head and your bottom lip sticks out just-so and your fingers find their way over his shoulder blades, “i don’t want you to go to prison.”

“then what’dya want, you fucking whore? don’t pull this shit on me anymore. you’re gunna tell me what you want before i start taking what _i_ want.”

you swallow, resist the urge to shiver. you didn’t think he’d cave in so easily, but you suppose you know your way around men easily enough by now. you draw back an arm, fingers trailing down his chest lightly before breaking contact with his sweat-slick skin completely and you beckon him forward with one finger. he looks like he’s about to commandeer the situation, but instead he leans forward, and you whisper into his ear, “i want you to fuck me like i’ve been a really bad boy.”

without another word, he pushes his lips to you and cups the side of your face, his hand making its way up to twine itself in your hair. your teeth gnash together and it’s all sloppy sloppy gross and you adore it, panting into his mouth and trying to hold onto him, to pull him further into the kiss. when you do, he just grabs your wrist and holds it away from him.

he breaks it sooner than you’d like him to. his face is largely emotionless except for the slight red tint on dark skin. he tugs you up from the desk by your hair, bringing you to your knees. they collide rather painfully with the concrete, but you barely concern yourself with that when his fingers work at undoing his fly and tugging out his cock. you immediately lean up to take it into your mouth, but the hand he still had knotted in your hair tugs you back and you whine, staring at it so hard you nearly go cross-eyed.

“whore,” he calls you again and you nod your head, trying to sit up and convince him to let you at it, please, “how long have you wanted to suck me off? betcha you’ve thought about for a while now, huh?”

you barely register the fact you’re supposed to speak until his fingers dig into your scalp and you jump in a rambling you’re not even sure makes sense, all kinds of, _“since forever please please let me have it please let me suck your dick.”_

his fingers loosen their grip. “only because you asked so nicely,” he tells you and you immediately surge up to take his cock into your mouth, as far as you can without gagging too horrible. you don’t care about finessing anything, the sooner this thing is down your throat, the sooner you get to die a happy man. you’ve mostly trained off a gag reflex, but it’s not completely gone. you close your eyes and try to set yourself into a nice little rhythm but his dick is much bigger than your spanish teacher’s or any high school boys’ and you’re having a bit of trouble.

his fingers are an encouraging presence in your hair, along with the occasional low groan or, “fuck, that’s it,” and his hips will jerk back and almost gag you, but you don’t care. part of you wants him to fuck your face, but you’re not sure how to communicate this to him to you just swallow around him and take him to the base and then back and you look up at him and he looks so good that it makes you keen, almost splutter around his dick in your mouth.

he pulls back after a moment and you almost chase after his dick because you wanted him to fuck your throat, dammit, but he’s obviously got something different in mind because his dick is in his hand and he’s tapping the side of your face, hand in your hair already tipping your head back.

“open up, baby,” he tells you and you do, squeezing your eyes shut for good measure before he can finish on your face, which you’ve never had happen before, but you can’t say that you don’t like it. his hand is out of your hair.

cum dribbles from your lips and cheeks and you may have some on your eyelashes but that’s cool, and you’re eager to clear it off with your fingers and lick it up and make sure he’s watching you do every bit of it as he tucks his cock back into his pants and underwear and then you glance up at him and suck on your index, and when you pull it from between your lips, you ask, “daddy, i’m still all hot.”

he takes a deep breath. you wonder if you’ve crossed a line with the daddy thing.

“get up, baby,” he tells you and you bite your lip to keep from grinning, holding your hands in front of yourself and looking up at him sheepishly.

“desk,” he tells you and you jump back up on it. he’s with you in an instant, fingers grazing along the vague bulge of your erection through your too-short shorts. “you were such a good boy for me, baby. you take my dick so well…”

you whine, jerk your hips up. he shushes you, presses the ball of his hand into your crotch and watches you keen, “none of that. good boys let their daddies handle things for them, and if they want something, they ask politely.”

“please touch me, daddy,” you breathe.

“what do we say?”

“please, daddy, please touch me,” begging pleas stumble from your lips, “i want you to fuck me daddy, please, please.”

his fingers catch under the waist of your shorts and tug them down and off, taking your shorties with them. he’s opening some drawer and you can only guess what he’s getting from it as he shoves your legs further apart. something falls off the desk but neither of you seem to care as his hand wraps itself around your cock and you push up into his his hand, something about the leather gloves that he wears that probably hide calloused palms gets to you and you let out a breathy moan. but it doesn’t last long and his hand is gone almost as soon as it was there. you feel as though you hear him fall to his knees, but you can’t be sure until you feel his hands keeping your legs apart at the knees. he bites at your inner thigh, his stubble is scratchy against your skin and you feel like your heart has lept into your throat.

his hands travel up and along your thighs, his fingernails digging into them fit to bruise. which you absolutely want, you want him to mark you. his thumbs dig into the flesh of your ass and as soon as his mouth comes into contact with you, you’re fisting your hands in his hair, content on keeping him there. he doesn’t seem to mind your sudden forcefulness and you moan loudly and very high as he licks you out, another thing you have yet to experience because you’re far more familiar with going down on others than vice versa. you wiggle your hips down, as if he can press his tongue any deeper inside of you, and his response is just to knock your hands from his hair, and hitch up your legs to push his head farther between your thighs and _god_ if you’re ever not complaining. you feel as though you’re about to come just from this, and just when you thought you could, he pulls away and you whine.

“don’t be a brat,” he tells you with a none-too-gentle slap to the ass, “you’re lucky i did that for you at all. don’t make me regret giving you treats.”

you sniffle and nod, not exactly ready to not be pissed off at him. his mouth is quickly replaced by the push of his fingers inside of you, two, which you take easily. it’s basically second nature by now. you don’t think you could count the number of dicks you’ve had on both hands. almost immediately, you’re begging for, “more, please, daddy. i can take it.”

“jesus, how often do you shove things up here?” he mutters and you don’t think you’re meant to hear it because it’s not a very sexy thing to say, but he complies, shoving a third finger into you and lazily moving them about.

“only sometimes, daddy,” you tell him, bucking back onto his fingers to encourage him to build up some enthusiasm, “but i’ve always wanted you to fuck me. that’s why i’m always misbehaving around you.”

“is that so?” he asks you, “do you think little sluts like yourself even deserve to get daddy’s cock?”

you nod. “because i have to learn my lesson. you have to set me straight and show me who’s in charge. you’re the reason i wear all these naughty clothes.”

“attention whore,” he calls you, pulling his fingers out. you hear him re-undoing his pants and you feel a spark of excitement, “betcha’d do anything just to get a mouthful of cock, wouldn’t you? how many guys have you slept through?”

you whine low in your throat. he presses the head of his cock to your hole and you try to push back onto it, but he just backs off when you do. “tell me. tell me how many dicks you’ve taken.”

“I don’t know, daddy, a lot,” you feel like crying. you will cry if he is not inside of you _right now,_ “daddy, daddy, please fuck me. i don’t want anyone’s dick but yours, daddy, please.”

“really now?” he asks, “you’d stop sleeping around like the little skank you are for me, would you? be my little jailbait.”

you nod manically. “yes, yes, only yours, _please daddy fuck me.”_

“there’s a pretty whore, good boy.”

he presses into you and you lose coherent brain operation. he’s so _big,_ he’s bigger than anyone you’ve ever had. maybe it was because he wasn’t a teenaged boy but you’re pretty sure he’s just really huge and you’re halfway convinced you’re going to split in half. there is probably drool dribbling from your mouth and you start panting even before he hasn’t moved an inch, just barely bottoming out inside of you.

“look at how good you take my cock, baby, so well…” he coos and you let out a quiet mewl and push your hips back.

“move, please,” you say and it’s barely a whisper but he hears and pulls out and then shoves back in and you cry out. something else falls off the desk. you wonder if the neighboring businesses can hear. it’s so fucking hot, still, it’s so hot and your skin is sticky with sweat and he’s fucking you so hard the table is shaking. there’s an endless, breath cry of “ _daddy harder please please”_ on your lips and the hold he has on your hips is only going to make more bruises. he draws your upper body up and you wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into his back as he sucks a mark into your neck. your erection is rubbing up against his stomach and you suddenly feel much closer than you had a moment ago, though you know better than to touch yourself.

“tell me you love it,” he mumbles against your skin and you do, you cry out and you feel actual tears beading in your eyes.

“it’s so good, you’re so good, oh my god daddy please fuck me harder,” you can barely go a sentence without having it trail off into some kind of needy, whiney moan. his hands dig into your ass and you’re vaguely aware of the scratch marks that you’re leaving up and down his back.

“good boy,” he calls you and it makes you shiver even though you’re hotter than you’ve ever been in your entire life, sweat-slicked skin sticky against his, “you’re so fucking good at taking dick, no wonder you’re such a whore.”

“only a whore for you, daddy,” you breath out and you don’t know if you’re really going to fuck this man ever again, but he seems to like your perhaps-faulty promises so you won’t stop making them, “only you can fuck me like this _oh shit oh my god-,”_

his hand reaches between the two of your to take your flushed erection into his hand, still covered with the leather glove, and get you off in time with his movements. you only realize when his thrusts get erratic and when he bites your shoulder that he’s close, but you’re closer, since you finish all over his stomach and when he cums, you realize that he hadn’t put on a condom which momentarily scares the shit out of you because _you’ve never had anal without a condom._

he drops you back on the table and you sit up, slightly uncomfortable with the way the stuff seems to be oozing out of you. your ass is fucked seven ways to sunday and it hurts to sit on the wooden desk. you whimper and he looks over at you, raising an eyebrow, “you okay?”

you hold out your arms. “carry me. hurts.”

he rolls his eyes but picks up you, swinging you bridal-style in his arms, and walks inside to the air conditioning which is a nice change of tone. he drops you on a couch that may be in the break room or the back room or something.

“your parents are gonna worry, ain’t they?” he asks you. you shrug.

“they don’t care,” you mumble truthfully, “come snuggle me.”

he snorts. “kid, i’ve got work.”

“please, daddy?”

he’s quiet for a moment, then sighs. “fine, let me close up shop.”


End file.
